


You the Wind, I the Rain, Together the Storm

by cumberpatchcats



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mental Institution, Brief Mentions Of Rape, Cutting, Eating Disorders, M/M, PTSD, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, You Have Been Warned, and sad Jehan, but only hints, so triggers like whoa, the appearance of Dr. Combeferre, unrequited enjolras/grantaire - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-12-06
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-03 15:00:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1071823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cumberpatchcats/pseuds/cumberpatchcats
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan and Courfeyrac are both pretty messed up. Then again, so is everybody else, really.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a light shower

“We’ve been compromised. Scarlet Eagle to Mother Crow, abort mission, I repeat, abort mission, over!”

“I can do it, commander. Over.”

“No, you listen to me soldier, return to base. I repeat, return to base, I will not have you jeopardize your life and the lives of my team. Over.”

“It’s too late.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

The signal is lost.

It’s loud and frenzied and nobody can see anything with all the dust flying up in the air, thanks to the trampling of feet and the shots being fired.

“Man down, man down!”

“Can anybody hear? Is anybody there?”

“Oh God oh God oh God!”

And all is eerily calm again.

 

\---

 

Courfeyrac can only open one eye. The other is tightly bandaged and painfully throbbing. His entire body is throbbing, actually. His left arm is in a sling. His left leg is in a cast. It hurts to turn his head. It hurts to blink. It hurts to breathe.

And then he’s back home. Honorable discharge. You did your country proud, soldier, go home and get some rest. His eye is still bandaged.

Courfeyrac doesn’t rest. He screams. It hurts to scream. He cries. That hurts too.

The night he is discharged from the hospital, he set his crutches beside his bed and crawls under the covers. He sleeps for approximately ten minutes. Then the nightmares start and he’s afraid to even blink.

They tell him to talk to someone. He doesn’t listen. He doesn’t need a therapist or a support group or a shrink, because he’s completely independent thank you very much and hell if a little battlefield action shakes him up for the rest of his life. He’s no wimp.

He’d go out with his friends. But they’re all dead. And it’s his fault.

 

\---

 

He goes to a bar and drinks himself stupid because it sounds like a great idea, and he tries to pick up a guy and ends up getting slapped in the face.

He goes home with a girl. She’s really lovely, actually, all sweet and gentle with red lips and wicked long legs, and she’s a great kisser and she helps Courfeyrac forget the world.

He wakes up in the middle of the night and tries to strangle her.

Of course she screams and she’s a tough girl, so she gets herself free and calls the police with trembling hands.

Courfeyrac is arrested.

He spends the night in a cell. He jumps at every sound that moves past the door of his cell. He tries to sleep. Can’t. Screams instead.

He’s banging his head against the wall when someone comes to check up on him, and it’s disturbing and horrifying and really, you can’t release a danger like Courfeyrac into society.

It’s the institute or prison. Personally Courfeyrac would probably prefer jail, but he doesn’t want to seem any crazier than he already is, so he shrugs and agrees. If his veteran insurance is going to pay, why the hell not?

 

\---

 

There’s another person in the room when Courfeyrac opens the door—he can’t see who it is, being obscured by the blanket drawn over the human form on a white bed pressed against a white wall. The form does not stir when Courfeyrac sets his bags down, and Courfeyrac automatically assumes his roommate is dead, until he sees the faintest movement of a chest rising and falling. He stares at the clump in the bed opposite to him for hours.

When the clump finally moves, long limbs stretch out in every direction and blond peeks out from under the covers. After a few seconds of stillness, the blankets are thrown off and a man sits up, dazed and sporting the worst case of bedhead Courfeyrac has ever seen—and he’s been looking in a mirror every morning of his life. Courfeyrac also notices a rather faint mark across the side of the man’s neck, like a clean cut scar. Courfeyrac wonders about it.

Then the man speaks, and startles Courfeyrac when he raises his hand in a greeting. “Jean Prouvaire,” he says bluntly, staring down at his hand where he obviously intends for Courfeyrac to shake it.

Courfeyrac does. He takes Jean Prouvaire’s hand in his own and gives it a good, firm shake, ignoring a faint red mark peeking out from under Jean Prouvaire’s sleeve.

“But please, Jehan,” the stranger goes on, retreating his hand. “And you are—,”

“Courfeyrac,” he cuts him off.

The man called Jehan raises an eyebrow. “I was going to say ‘cute’ but that works too.”

Courfeyrac lets himself laugh.

“Sorry I couldn’t introduce myself earlier. I was told to expect a new roommate, but I need my afternoon nap or else I get…” Jehan’s voice trails off. He stares blankly through Courfeyrac before blinking rapidly and clearing his throat. “So yeah, sorry. But hi, welcome to hell.”

Courfeyrac frowns. “Is it really that bad?”

Jehan narrows his eyes. “They monitor your every move. They watch you eat. They make you talk about your feelings. There’s a _curfew_. They take away everything sharp. They take away any reading material that can be even remotely harmful—which is shit because all the best books are. So yeah, it’s really that bad.”

Courfeyrac swallows. He should have gone to prison.

But he braves it and breaks out into a crooked grin. “Well, if hell means sleeping next to a gorgeous human being like you, then may I burn for all eternity.”

Jean Prouvaire smiles and it’s the most beautiful smile Courfeyrac has ever seen.

 

\---

 

Bahorel is obsessed with strangers. Like literally, obsessed with strangers. He’s entirely too dependent and clingy and sex-crazed like whoa and nobody is sure what’s exactly wrong with him but at least his medication keeps his dick in his pants.

He immediately latches himself onto Courfeyrac the moment Courfeyrac walks into the cafeteria for dinner and introduces himself and everyone else in the entire fucking room.

Years ago, Courfeyrac would have found it annoying. Now, he’s attention-starved and in serious need of friends who aren’t dead, so he takes in Bahorel’s words with utter fascination.

Feuilly was raped by his foster father. Ten years later, he’s still not taking it too well. Nobody is allowed to touch him unless they want to hear him scream for three minutes straight.

Joly was a medical student. Years of reading textbooks full of terrible diseases turned him into a hopeless hypochondriac. Today he’s convinced he has tuberculosis. Yesterday, Bahorel explains, he had brain cancer.

Enjolras has OCD. Not like “wow I can’t stand it when someone dog-ears my books laugh out loud I’m so OCD haha” OCD but like full on destroy your life can’t even function unless all dust is removed, shoe laces and hoodie strings even, books straight and alphabetized, daily schedule checked and followed down to the exact minute, arrange all carrots in order from smallest to largest before consumption, moisturize at least ninety times an hour, can’t leave the room because today is a prime number day of the month OCD. And for the love of God don’t ever try to switch his brand of toothpaste because he _will_ throw a tantrum. It’s sad, really. He’s only seventeen and his parents actually give a shit, because they threw him in here when Enjolras refused to eat because he didn’t feel in control of himself when he did. Enjolras has to get weighed every week and he has to have a nurse flush his toilet to make sure he hasn’t thrown everything up again.

Grantaire is in love with Enjolras. And everyone knows it, including Enjolras, but Grantaire is twenty three and has commitment issues and abusive parents and is an overall violent, bipolar, self-depreciating, alcoholic mess and all he ever talks about is how fantastic life was with a bottle of beer in his hand, and Courfeyrac can see the track marks lining the inside of his elbow. He also seems to be the only one who truly doesn’t want to get better. Grantaire hates himself and he hates life, but he loves Enjolras, and that’s the only reason he hasn’t checked himself out of here.

Marius is a dangerous schizophrenic capable of killing anybody he suspects of being a Russian spy. His severe epilepsy certainly doesn’t help. He sees flashing lights, believes they’re malicious codes, and starts seizing. It’s not pretty. He’s the newest, aside from Courfeyrac, and not too keen on making friends.

“And what about you?” Bahorel asks, and suddenly all eyes are on Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac stutters and coughs, but when it’s clear there are no such things as secrets around here, he gives in.

“PTSD, apparently,” he shrugs, and he can hear the murmurs across the table.

“That’s so cool,” Feuilly acknowledges. “You’re a soldier?”

“Was,” Courfeyrac corrected him. “Something went wrong. I got shot. The rest of my squad got shot. Everyone got shot. Now I’ve got a tremor in one hand and everyone else is dead.”

Complete and utter silence. Nice job Courf, you’ve killed the mood.

Nobody asks for details. Courfeyrac is glad, because he doesn’t want to start crying like a baby in front of this group of broken strangers.

Jehan won’t let Bahorel talk about him. He’s ashamed, he says, which is a good thing because the first step to solving a problem is by admitting there is a problem in the first place. But when he leaves the cafeteria for his evening counseling talk, Bahorel spills the beans.

“He’s Grantaire, but scarier,” Bahorel explains. “Completely self-destructive, suicidal, he’s required to keep his nails cut short otherwise he’ll scratch all his skin off. And that’d be okay and everything, but then some days he’s ecstatic and humming and in love with life and it’s fucking scary. He’s been here longer than any of us; I’ve heard he’s been in and out of places like this for years. He and Grantaire clicked together a while back after they made some sort of suicide pact Grantaire’s first week. Jehan spent a miserable week of getting prescription pills pumped out of his system. After that, they had to be separated. They were bad influences on each other so they can’t be in the same bedroom—or the same hallway as each other. He’s actually been a lot worse lately. He was supposed to go home two weeks ago but he fucked up and got caught trying to cut himself with a plastic knife from the cafeteria, so he doesn’t get utensils anymore and he’s back to square one. Sucks, right?”

Courfeyrac is horrified. Jehan is beautiful. His skin is smooth and pale, his cheeks rosy and his hair long and shiny. He’s only seen Jehan smile once, and his heart already felt all warm and fuzzy inside. It’s a shame. It’s a damn shame a beautiful boy like that would ever want to hurt himself. Why, then? What was it that drove him to this point? It makes Courfeyrac sick.

When Courfeyrac gets back to his room, he’s just in time for medicine. He takes his pills with a grimace, and turns to Jehan who has retreated back underneath the covers of his bed and refused his pills.

The nurse struggles with him, but Jehan is resilient. He will not take that disgusting medicine. It makes him feel weak and sick, he says. He can’t think and he’s always sleepy and it’s not worth it.

“Don’t you want to get better though?” the nurse asks.

And Jehan frowns, but reluctantly takes the pills. He swallows them with practiced ease and it reminds Courfeyrac of Bahorel’s story, about how easy it was for Jehan to swallow an entire bottle.

When the nurse is gone, Courfeyrac sits cross-legged on his bed and flashes Jehan another lopsided grin. “It’s the 21st century, we can grow organs in petri dishes, why the hell can’t we make better tasting medicine—am I right?”

It’s such a stupid observation, but Jehan smiles for the second time that day, and his smile makes Courfeyrac almost feel okay again. 


	2. Group Therapy

It’s the first night in a totally strange new environment, of course Courfeyrac is nervous, and of course it only triggers everything, and of course he wakes up about two AM breathing heavily.

When he glances to the side, he finds Jehan lying on his side, eyes wide open and staring straight at his new roommate.

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac apologizes. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

Jehan gives his head a little tilt. “It’s fine. I’ve woken up roommates before too. It’s an unspoken law around here, you’re not allowed to get upset at other patients for stuff like that. So it’s fine.”

Courfeyrac gives a little sigh of relief. Then he clears his throat. “Wait, roommates? How many have you had so far? Just how long have you been here?”

Jehan frowns. “Here, specifically?” He asks for clarification.

“Here in general,” Courfeyrac waves his hand around the room as he explains. “Places like this.”

Courfeyrac knows he’s probably overstepping some sort of boundary here. But Jehan smiles at him warmly, letting him know he’s perfectly okay with answering the question. “This institute was my first. I was fourteen, so they put me in the youth ward. Then again at fifteen, and again at eighteen when I graduated to grown up therapy. After that I went travelling, which was probably not the smartest idea, since it landed me in two hospitals along the way. I thought it’d be better once I got home. I guess not.”

Courfeyrac bows his head. It’s too early to be this depressed. It’s too early for Jehan to look sad.

Jehan knows this, and he won’t have Courfeyrac becoming upset on account of him, so he flashes a quick smile. “Although you know, in all my years in and out of here, I’ve never had a roommate quite as handsome as you.”

Courfeyrac lets out a small chuckle, but it’s still not enough.

Jehan shifts in his bed and exhales deeply. “Try to get some sleep, okay?”

“Yeah.” Courfeyrac lays back down again, eyes transfixed on the pale white ceiling. He closes his eyes. Sleep doesn’t return to him all night, but he keeps still nonetheless because he will not wake Jehan up.

Around five AM, there’s a thump outside, and it startles both Courfeyrac and his roommate. Jehan sits straight up and there’s that beautiful bedhead again, but Courfeyrac doesn’t have time to admire it because Jehan immediately goes to smooth it out with his fingers.

Jehan sighs. “That’ll be Marius again. He sleepwalks sometimes,” he explains, swinging his legs over the side of his bed and standing up. He walks out of the room and Courfeyrac decides to get up and follow him into the hall, where Marius is indeed roaming around kicking the wall every few steps.

“Marius!” Jehan calls, but the other boy does not seem to hear. He just kicks the wall again. Jehan steps forward to grasp Marius by the shoulders. “Marius, wake up.”

And Marius does, only to spew out “they’re listening to us.” He kicks the wall again. “Their recording device is somewhere here. Behind the wall, I know it.”

Jehan begins rubbing small circles into Marius’s shoulders. “Marius, dear,” he starts. “You’re fine. Nobody is recording you. Nothing is behind that wall. You’re safe. It’s okay.”

Courfeyrac imagines a million ways this scene could go from here. Marius could freak out and run away, or actually kick a hole in the wall, or turn against Jehan and start hitting him for being a liar, because he swears something really is behind the wall and the only reason Jehan would try to tell him otherwise would be because he was a spy himself.

None of these things actually happen.

To Courfeyrac’s surprise, he watches Marius’s shoulders tense for a moment under Jehan’s touch, before he relaxes and all but falls into Jehan’s arms. Jehan catches him and holds him and whispers things into his ear that Courfeyrac can’t make out. Marius clutches at Jehan’s arm and trembles, but eventually the shaking ceases.

Jehan holds Marius until he is deemed presentable. Then he gives Marius a firm pat on the head and sends him back to his room because if Enjolras discovers his roommate is missing again, he’ll start freaking out too and they’ll have a whole new problem on their hands.

When Jehan returns to the room, Courfeyrac follows him.

“You handled that really well,” Courfeyrac compliments him.

Jehan shrugs. “I’ve learned. He does it often enough—I’m actually surprised, usually it takes a little more coaxing to convince him he’s not being watched.”

“Why not just call a nurse and have them deal with it?”

“Marius doesn’t trust doctors,” Jehan explains. “Or nurses, or the likes. It’s a lot better for him to calm himself around friends.”

Fair enough, Courfeyrac thinks.

Jehan smiles at him and climbs back into his bed. “Go to sleep,” he demands again.

“Okay.”

Courfeyrac doesn’t.

 

\---

 

There’s something distinctively childish about being forced to sit around in a circle. Of course, there’s nothing wrong with the really nice, squishy armchairs and the two sofas, it’s just that come on, circles, really? Talk about cliché group therapy.

Dr. Combeferre pushes his thick-rimmed glasses up his nose and clears his throat. There’s an awkward silence as his eyes scan the room, then finally he speaks. “Where’s Bossuet?”

A dozen eyes scan the room after him, and indeed there’s nothing where a certain someone would be.

“It’s Friday the thirteenth,” Jehan speaks up. “He’s not coming.”

A murmur of “ah’s” diffuses across the room and Dr. Combeferre nods like he understands completely.

Bossuet is paranoid and superstitious to the extreme, which is actually pretty understandable because to be fair, the poor guy does tend to have terrible luck. He won’t touch salt or pepper shakers—and won’t let anybody else touch them in his presence for that matter, he avoids mirrors like the plague, and the only one who really understands him is Enjolras because they’re both deathly afraid of prime numbers. In fact, Dr. Combeferre gives Enjolras quite a bit of praise for braving it enough to attend the group meeting today. Enjolras beams at the compliment.

“One time,” Bahorel begins to explain as he leans over to whisper into Courfeyrac’s ear, “Bossuet actually beat up Marius for accidentally bumping into him in the hallway and making him step in a crack in-between tiles. He then practically spent two whole days on the phone with his mom to make sure she was okay.”

“Why?” Courfeyrac asks, raising an eyebrow.

Bahorel mimics his physical expression. “Step on a crack, break your mother’s back?”

It’s the dumbest thing Courfeyrac has ever heard, but then again he’s currently sitting in a mental institution, so he supposes technically anything is possible.

“So, Courfeyrac,” Dr. Combeferre begins, leaning back in his chair comfortably. “This is your first group therapy, right?”

Courfeyrac only nods.

“Okay well, I’ll just go over the rules then. First off, you can speak whenever you like, no need to raise hands or anything like that—as long as nobody else is talking. Secondly, we’re all in this together so there won’t be any patronizing language or mentions of anything that could trigger someone, and try to keep swearing to a minimum. You won’t be reprimanded for it, but really, just try. You’re not obligated to speak, and the door is always open if you start feeling uncomfortable. Just know that no matter what you say or do in here, nobody will judge you or speak of it outside of therapy.  We’re here to support you. Sound good?”

It’s a really dry, prepared speech, but Dr. Combeferre doesn’t seem to be regarding Courfeyrac as a child, so Courfeyrac shrugs in agreement and relaxes a bit. He’s planning to be completely bored out of his mind.

Just as expected, nothing exciting happens.

“Who wants to share something good that happened to them today?” Dr. Combeferre asks to nobody in particular.

Joly speaks first. He sits straight up from his spot on one of the sofas and grins from ear to ear. “So you know how I got a paper cut on my finger a week ago? Well, it’s nearly healed now, and it _hasn’t_ become infected.”

“Good,” Dr. Combeferre praises him. “That’s nice to hear. Anybody else?”

And Courfeyrac yawns, just about ready to take a nap, when the voice of Jean Prouvaire rings through his ears.

“Something _excellent_ happened yesterday,” Jehan says. “I got this super adorable roommate which is great because you know I don’t deal very well when I’m alone, and I was afraid I’d be all by myself for a really long time, but everything’s all good.” And Jehan turns to Courfeyrac and _smirks_ at him.

Oh that bastard.

“It seems you and Jehan have really hit it off, haven’t you?” Dr. Combeferre comments, directed at Courfeyrac. “What do you think about him?”

Courfeyrac recalls the doctor’s words that he would never be obligated to speak, but everyone is looking expectantly at him, and Jehan won’t stop smirking, so Courfeyrac gives in and opens his mouth. “Oh, he’s great. I woke him up last night and he didn’t even punch me.”

A round of laughter makes its way around the room.

From there, the conversation migrates from good things to roommates, and Dr. Combeferre spends a whole ten minutes trying to settle a dispute between Marius and Enjolras after Marius had completely frazzled Enjolras’s crisp, carefully made bed, completely convinced that Enjolras was hiding government secrets between his sheets. The compromise is that Marius would stop destroying Enjolras’s property if Enjolras agreed to stop sneaking into Marius’s drawers and folding his underwear because really who does that? Enjolras makes a strangled whine in the back of his throat, but reluctantly nods.

 

\---

 

“And he’s great and perfect and his hair looks so soft, like I just want to touch it—no, I want to braid it—my sister taught me how to braid hair but her hair was too short to do it properly and his hair is just perfect, like his face, and his eyes, they’re like the greenest green to ever green, and—,”

“Courfeyrac.”

Courfeyrac snaps back down to earth and blinks twice at Dr. Combeferre.

“That’s great and everything, and I’m glad you’re getting along with Jehan, but these private sessions are supposed to be about _you_.”

“Sorry,” Courfeyrac apologizes, bowing his head to stare at his hands fiddling in his lap. “What was the question?”

Dr. Combeferre sighs. “I asked how your relationship was with your _mother_ , Courfeyrac. How on earth did you manage to steer that far off course?”

Courfeyrac shrinks into his chair and apologizes again.

Dr. Combeferre waves his hand, dismissing the whole incident. “Never mind that. Let’s talk about what happened to you.”

“What about it?”

Dr. Combeferre pushes his glasses up his nose as he flips through a clipboard. “You were ambushed in the middle of a mission, weren’t you?”

Courfeyrac winces. Oh, he really doesn’t want to talk about this right now. Or ever.

“Your commanding officer told you to stop the mission. And you didn’t. Do you think that if you had left, you could have avoided an attack?”

With a small sigh, Courfeyrac shifts uncomfortably in his seat. It would have been difficult. They had gotten so far, it probably would have been just as risky to backtrace. But probably not. It’s hard to say. Yes? No. Could he have avoided an attack? Absolutely. But probably not. Definitely not. Maybe. Who knows?

“Do you blame yourself?” Dr. Combeferre asks, and when Courfeyrac keeps his head down, he has his answer.

Courfeyrac can see them, right now. His friends, the ones who put their lives in his hands because they trusted him, and Courfeyrac let them all down. They were dead, and it was all his fault, all his fault, all his fault. He did this to them.

“Courfeyrac, look at me.”

Nothing happens.

“Look at me,” Dr. Combeferre repeats a bit more sternly, and Courfeyrac snaps his head up to look the doctor in the eyes. “It’s not. It’s not your fault. If you had turned around, your back would have been to the enemy and things might have been even worse. _You_ could have died. You’d _all_ be dead.”

And Courfeyrac can’t stop himself from opening his mouth. “I wish I _was_ d—,”

“Don’t,” Dr. Combeferre immediately interrupts him. “Don’t you start. Think about what you’re about to say and tell yourself you don’t mean it. You did nothing wrong.”

“I disobeyed a direct order—,”

“And you survived.” Dr. Combeferre’s eyes are narrowed. “Nothing else matters. You did what you thought was best, and you survived, and now you have to keep on surviving, do you understand me?”

It takes a solid half a minute before Courfeyrac nods in agreement.

Then Dr. Combeferre leans back in his chair and lets out a sigh. “Is Jehan influencing you? Do I need to separate you two?”

Courfeyrac’s head shoots up and he gazes at the doctor with an absolute horrified expression. “No!” He practically yells.

“Okay, okay calm down,” Dr. Combeferre tries to reassure him. “Look, Courfeyrac, I understand you like him and everything, but if he’s becoming dangerous for you, I’m going to have to step in.”

Courfeyrac is silent. He drops his head again and chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip before he speaks once more, in a low, practically whispered voice. “Does…does Jehan say that a lot? That he wants to die?”

After a hesitant pause, Dr. Combeferre readjusts his glasses again. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my other patients with you. I’m sorry.” 

“I want him to stop,” Courfeyrac says bluntly. “I need him to stop saying that.”

Dr. Combeferre presses his lips into a thin line, and closes Courfeyrac’s folder, indicating the end of the session. “Courfeyrac. If you want him to stop, then you need to stop _yourself_ first.”

So Courfeyrac does, and he vows to himself to never again wish he were dead—for Jehan’s sake. 


	3. Revealed

Jehan is getting worse.

Everyone notices.

Bahorel was right, Courfeyrac notes, in saying that Jehan was so much scarier than Grantaire. Grantaire parades around the room dismissing every bit of happiness he lays his eyes on, and he talks about how awesome it would feel to tie a rope around his neck until he gets sent to the detention room for being a walking trigger for everyone in the room. Jehan is sweet. He acts like a mother to everyone—he knows how to make Marius’s hallucinations go away, he holds Enjolras through every panic attack, he’s the only one who gets to touch Feuilly, and the only one Bahorel hasn’t tried to molest. His favorite color is yellow and he always paints the sun and pretty galaxies during artistic recreation time, so when he starts scribbling a giant black hole and bites through his bottom lip until he bleeds, it startles everyone.

Dr. Combeferre places a firm hand on Jehan’s shoulder, which does not deter him from finishing his disturbing image. “Jehan. Do you need to talk?”

Jehan shakes his head furiously as his pencil moves frantically across the paper. Courfeyrac is sitting opposite to him and he can see Jehan’s sleeve start to ride up, just barely exposing the dimly lit scars on his skin, and it reminds Courfeyrac of why Jehan is here, because sometimes Courfeyrac forgets that Jehan is not a normal person no matter how much he may seem to be. He’s not here to cater to everybody’s needs. He’s here because he needs help, just like the rest of them.

Jehan catches him staring. Their eyes lock, and Jehan slowly fixes his sleeve to hide himself, never taking his eyes off Courfeyrac. Then he drops his head back down and his unbraided hair falls over his face as he starts scribbling again.

When the lights go out that night, Jehan immediately crawls under his covers without saying a single word. He hasn’t said a word in two days, Courfeyrac realizes. Jehan lies with his back to Courfeyrac and curls up in a ball. He grabs one of his own wrists. Courfeyrac watches him run a finger up and down the length of his sleeve, and he knows exactly what Jehan is thinking about.

So Courfeyrac stays up all night, watching him, afraid of what Jehan might do if left all alone.

Halfway through the night, Courfeyrac watches Jehan’s shoulder shake. He’s crying. He’s crying and Courfeyrac wants to approach him and draw him into a tight hug and keep him there until he stops crying, but for some reason he’s too scared.

That is the first day Courfeyrac realizes he’s in love.

 

\---

 

“Jehan, do you have something to add?”

Jehan, instead of answering, scowls at the crowd and hugs his knees tighter against his chest.

Dr. Combeferre frowns. Jehan is usually one of the more participating members of group therapy, and without him patients are proportionately less likely to participate themselves. There’s been an awkward silence for about five minutes because nobody has been willing to speak up, minus Bossuet who’s been complaining about the broken mirror in his bathroom that Bahorel had so graciously smashed and that Dr. Combeferre swears will definitely be repaired by next week.

“Give me a color,” Dr. Combeferre demands, and it’s something he does with a lot of patients, Courfeyrac knows. Green is awesome, yellow lands you in an extra therapy session, and red puts you on lockdown for the day and constant monitoring the day after that. Enjolras had a red day last week. Yes it’s really that bad.

To everyone’s surprise, Jehan simply spits out “fuck off,” and it’s the first time Courfeyrac has ever heard Jehan speak to anyone in an offensive manner.

Dr. Combeferre presses his lips into a thin line. “Try to watch your language, Jehan.”

And Jehan rolls his eyes. “Like I give a shit,” he sneers, and then he stands up and just leaves the room entirely. He just strolls across the room and opens the door like it’s the most normal thing for him to do in the world, and then he’s gone just like that.

And nobody will shut up about it.

“Quiet,” Dr. Combeferre tries to control everyone. “Quiet! Leave Jehan alone right now, okay? Don’t talk about it.”

But it’s no use. Group therapy is over for the day as far as everybody is concerned.

Dr. Combeferre gives up and dismisses the crowd.

 

\---

 

When Courfeyrac opens the door, a flying object almost hits him in the face. He has a momentary feeling of panic and darts out of the way, and the object hits the wall instead. It’s a pen. Courfeyrac almost got hit with a pen.

His eyes freeze on Jehan’s form, and Jehan stares back at him in shock. “Courfeyrac,” he breathes, and it’s an apology in itself. Obviously he hadn’t expected Courfeyrac to return so quickly.

But Courfeyrac doesn’t relax. He’s frozen in place, his jaw gaped open and his eyes wide, transfixed on Jehan because Jehan has taken off his sweater, he’s only wearing a solid orange tank top, and Courfeyrac can see everything.

Courfeyrac knows what cutters look like. His best friend in high school became one. He’s dead now, probably thanks to Courfeyrac, but that’s not the point. The point is that he’s seen self-harm scars before, it’s practically impossible for anybody not to have nowadays. He’s seen white, faded scars on his friend, agitated slightly raised wounds, clean cuts, and one particular gruesome image he had stumbled across over the internet depicting a woman who had died after practically slicing her forearm wide open with a terribly deep vertical cut. Although the image might have been fake. You never know with the internet.

But nothing could have prepared him for what his eyes could see right now. Jehan’s arms are completely _destroyed_ and it’s worse than anything Courfeyrac has ever seen in his life—and he’s watched a guy’s leg being blown off right before his eyes. And it’s not even his wrists, or his forearms, no, there are scars rising _all the way up_ and around the entire length of his arm, including both of his shoulders. They’re everywhere, in every direction, some clean straight lines and others not so straight. Most of them are whitening and smooth, but there are quite a few still struggling to heal properly. There is hardly any skin left untainted. In his hand Jehan holds a paperback book with his palm facing outward and Courfeyrac can see the other marks on his wrists—faded pen and ink, the faint outlines of squiggles and shapes, and the new red line marks that probably came from a red Crayola marker that resemble razor cuts much too comfortably for Courfeyrac’s taste. It doesn’t take a genius to realize what those marks mean. Jehan has been trying. “Coping skills,” Dr. Combeferre might call them. Draw on yourself. Make a pretty picture. If you’re at your worst, draw in red exactly where you’d like to cut. It’s not the same, but you’ll make do. Because you want to get better. That’s why you’re here. You want to get better, Jehan.

He’s been trying so hard. It must be so frustrating for him.

Jehan knows he’s been exposed, and he suddenly becomes self-conscious enough to fold his arms into his chest, as if it’s going to help because there are literally scars _all around_ the circumference of his thin arms and Courfeyrac is _frightened_.

Jehan. Oh, poor, poor Jehan.

And Jehan turns his head to the side. “Sorry,” he tries apologizing again, probably for almost hitting Courfeyrac in the face with a pen. “I…I’m trying a new medication. It’s…not working out too well.” As he speaks, he rubs his arms absent-mindedly and he’s _still thinking about doing it_ , and Courfeyrac wants him to stop. Just stop. Stop it, Jehan. Don’t do that to yourself. There are so many things Courfeyrac wants to say, but nothing comes out of his mouth.

In a split second, Jehan is reaching for his sweater again, as if covering himself up will make Courfeyrac unsee everything, but Courfeyrac doesn’t let him; he quickly grabs Jehan’s damaged wrists and Jehan doesn’t flinch, it doesn’t hurt because none of the scars are new, because he’s been doing _so well_ recently. However, he does look extremely horrified and tries to yank back his arms, but Courfeyrac is an ex-soldier and Jehan is an actual stick, so it’s by no means a fair test of strength.

“JehanIloveyou.” The words fly out of Courfeyrac’s mouth so quickly he barely has time to articulate, and he’s so surprised at himself and he stares at Jehan in disbelief.

Jehan mimics his expression and parts his lips, as if to say something. But he doesn’t.

“Shit,” Courfeyrac swears. “I didn’t mean…” he gazes at Jehan, whose expression has not shifted, before he speaks again. “Actually you know what? Yeah, I totally did mean it. What the hell, right? Jean Prouvaire, I’m in love with you.”

Jehan actually stutters. “Courfeyrac, we’ve known each other for like a month.”

“Yeah.”

“And we’re in a goddamn mental institution.”

“Seems like it.”

“And you love me.”

“I love you.”

And Jehan scoffs and shakes his head. “Need I remind you we’re in a _mental_ institution?”

In response, Courfeyrac takes one of Jehan’s arms and raises it to his face, and promptly kisses Jehan’s inner wrist.

Jehan looks horrified. He tries to yank his arm away, but Courfeyrac won’t let him, and he has no choice but to stand there as Courfeyrac kisses his wrist again, and again, up and up Jehan’s arm, across his elbow, and up still, and Jehan is absolutely terrified but he can’t stop it.

Courfeyrac can’t help himself. He presses his mouth to marred skin over and over, feeling the way the scars brush against his lips. It’s one of the most radical things he’s done in his entire life, aside from defying corporal orders and getting his entire squad killed in combat.

And Courfeyrac doesn’t stop once he gets to Jehan’s scarred shoulder. He kisses across Jehan’s collarbone, causing the other to let out an audible gasp and grab a fistful of Courfeyrac’s shirt sleeve in reaction. He kisses up Jehan’s neck, ghosting over the visible scar across the side of his throat, and recalls Bahorel telling him that Grantaire told him that Jehan said it was from the first time he had ever tried to kill himself—he was fourteen, slitting his throat seemed to be ideal, but he missed the main artery and couldn’t cut deep enough to bleed to death-just deep enough to leave behind a permanent scar. Courfeyrac wants to cry. He does. He’s crying.

He’s crying when he presses his lips on Jehan’s jawline, and Jehan is trembling under his touch, but he’s not trying to leave anymore at least. And when he presses the side of his face to Jehan’s cheek, Jehan can feel his tears, and he lets out another gasp.

“You’re beautiful,” Courfeyrac whispers against Jehan’s skin.

Jehan scoffs. “I’m not.”

“Pretend you are,” is Courfeyrac’s response. “Then maybe one day you will be.”

“My body is never going to heal,” Jehan states a-matter-of-factly.

And Courfeyrac presses his lips gently against Jehan’s, just for half a second, barely enough to be called a proper kiss. “No. But your heart might.” 


	4. Date Night

“Go out with me.”

Jehan pauses, his hairbrush still mid-stroke through his entangled hair. There’s a long period of silence before he sighs, puts on a smile, and turns his head away from the bathroom mirror to where Courfeyrac is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame like he thinks he’s so cool.

“And where do you suppose we go? On a date to the recreation room?” Jehan teases him.

Courfeyrac’s grin does not falter. “All right, all right, fine. Metaphorically go out with me.”

“As in mind dates?” Jehan raises an eyebrow. “We’d sit around pretending we were actually on a beach? Have you been spending too much time hanging around Marius?”

“Shut up,” Courfeyrac whines, but he doesn’t mean it and he knew Jehan knows this. “You know what I mean. Be my boyfriend.”

Jehan gives a slight chuckle and goes back to brushing his hair. “I’m already dating Bossuet.”

Courfeyrac chokes on his own saliva and his heart falls to his feet. “Really?!”

And Jehan laughs again, this time much louder. “No.”

Courfeyrac begins to pout, crossing his arms over his chest. “That was cruel.”

“You’re right,” Jehan apologizes. “I’m actually dating Combeferre.”

Courfeyrac lets out a scoff. “Now _that’s_ a lie.”

Jehan puts his brush down and runs his hands through his hair a few times before swinging the locks over his shoulder and quickly starting a loose braid. After a few twists, he frowns, brushes his hair out again, and starts over.

He can’t do it. No matter what, the braid won’t meet his expectation. He undoes his work and brushes it out again.

Courfeyrac notices. He’s silent when he steps into the bathroom, but Jehan makes no protest as he gathers the blond locks in his hands and separates them into three terribly uneven strands.

It’s the worst braid Jehan has ever seen in his life.

He wears it all day.

 

\---

 

Jehan starts off fine, almost perfectly as normal as the day he and Courf first met. He helps Enjolras with the history packets Enjolras is always getting sent by his teachers so he won’t fall to far behind when (if) he comes back to school.

Jehan eats a full meal and manages to encourage Enjolras to do the same, and there’s a sort of tranquility that falls upon the table. Jehan, the mother hen, is okay, and thus everyone else is too.

During recreation, Jehan curls himself up comfortably in an armchair and quietly reads an already approved novel. Courfeyrac watches him and smiles because there’s nothing he loves more than seeing Jehan happy.

A few minutes later, however, Jehan’s face is in his hands and his shoulders are shaking with every coherent sob.

Courfeyrac worries, obviously, and when he glances around the room he can see the amount of distress everyone else is in as they watch Jehan cry—Marius looks like he’s about to have a panic attack.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac whispers from where he’s been sitting across the room, but Jehan responds by letting out another wail.

“Jehan,” he repeats, a little louder this time. “Come here.”

At first, Jehan pretends like he hasn’t heard a thing—he keeps right on crying and draws his knees further into his chest. But Courfeyrac keeps prying and begging him to come, so Jehan eventually lifts his head. Courfeyrac is holding his arms outstretched, beckoning the blonde to come forth, and he just looks so calm and secure that Jehan finds he’s raising himself up out of the armchair.

He drudges forward, his feet heavy beneath him, until he all but collapses onto Courfeyrac’s lap, bursting into another round of tears.

Courfeyrac slides a hand around the back of Jehan’s neck, the other snaking around supporting Jehan’s shoulder. He pulls Jehan’s head underneath so that he can rest his chin at the top of Jehan’s scalp.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” Jehan sobs out, his voice muffled by Courfeyrac’s neck.

“Nothing’s wrong with you,” Courfeyrac tries to ensure him.

“I have nothing to be sad about,” Jehan wails. “But I can’t stop crying, and this medicine doesn’t fucking _work_!”

Courfeyrac strokes his fingers through long blonde locks of hair. “You need to tell Dr. Combeferre,” he suggests.

Jehan just shakes his head violently and lets out a shaky breath. “I can’t. This is the fifth combination he’s tried and none of them work, and I…” he lets out a small cough. “I’m so scared he’ll try again and I’ll fail, and nothing I ever take will help and, and, and I want to…I have to…just” he loses all coherency and grabs onto the material of Courfeyrac’s shirt as he weeps aloud once more.

“Jehan, ssh,” Courfeyrac reassures him, continuing to pet his hair lovingly. “It’s okay.” He can’t stop himself from planting a chaste kiss to the top of Jehan’s head. “Do you want me to walk to him with you?”

The sobs quiet for a moment. Jehan’s shoulders give another tremble, and soon he’s just breathing ragged and heavy. It takes him a long while to calm himself down enough to lift his head from where his face had been buried into Courfeyrac’s shoulder. He locks eyes with Courfeyrac and blinks once, then twice. His face is tear stained and his eyes are red, but Courfeyrac wants to kiss him anyways.

“Would you?” Jehan’s voice is small, shaky even, hoarse from his violent sobbing fit, and his fingers are still tightly fisted through the material of Courfeyrac’s shirt.

Courfeyrac just smiles at him and declares “come on, let’s go.”

Jehan is hesitant and slow to slide off of Courfeyrac’s lap, but he’s soon standing on his own. Once they’re both on their feet, Courfeyrac holds out a hand, and Jehan takes it.

They leave together like that, hand in hand, not caring about all the stares they might be receiving from the other patients who had just been witnesses to the entire scene.

 

\---

 

Dr. Combeferre scribbles something secretive on his clipboard and nods slowly.

“Mmhmm. And on a scale of one to ten, ten being the worst you’ve ever been, how bad do you feel right now?”

Jehan furrows his eyebrows as he thinks and clasps his hands together tightly. “Seven.”

“Okay.” And Dr. Combeferre hastily writes something. Then he looks up to stare directly at his patient. “Are you thinking about killing yourself right now?”

Jehan directs his gaze down to his feet as he quickly shakes his head. “No. I just feel sad. And I feel like I want to…” He hesitates, not exactly sure how to convey what he wants to his doctor, so he absent-mindedly strokes the insides of his wrists.

Dr. Combeferre understands immediately. His lips press into a thin line. “Jehan, can you roll up your sleeves for me?”

There’s a moment of reluctance, but Jehan ultimately obliges, sliding the sleeves of his sweater up to his elbows and displaying his forearms in front of Combeferre. They’re marred and stained with scars and marker remnants as usual, but nothing seems to cause alarm.

“Can I trust that the rest of you is as clean as your forearms?” Dr. Combeferre asks.

Jehan nods.

“And I see you’re making use of your coping skills,” Dr. Combeferre praises him, nodding in the direction of Jehan’s colorful arms. They’re covered in words and phrases and little doodles, and the occasional straight red pen line across each wrist.

“It’s been hard,” Dr. Combeferre sympathizes. “Especially when your medicine isn’t doing much to help you, I understand. You’re doing so well though, Jehan, and I am very proud of you. I’m glad you told me about your pills. I think I’d like to keep you on them for another week, just to see if its effects have been delayed, but if you don’t feel a difference by then, or if you feel worse like you’re about to kill yourself, notify me immediately. Understand?”

Jehan understands. He nods, and breathes a sigh of relief.

When he leaves, Courfeyrac is sitting on the floor just outside Combeferre’s office.

They smile at each other, and it’s an entire conversation in itself.

Then Courfeyrac speaks up.

“Well, as far as first dates go, this has surprisingly not been my worst.” 


	5. Cover-ups

_“They’re dead Courfeyrac, leave them!”_

_“They’re my friends!”_

_“They’re gone. Do you hear me? Gone! Now get moving or else you’ll be killed too!”_

_Courfeyrac drops to his knees in front of what is left of his best friend. He screams and bows his head, but his friend does not hear him. Even if he were alive, he’d probably be begging for death right now, with nearly the entire right half of his body missing and his left side severely twisted. No man would ever wish to be alive like this._

_“Come back,” Courfeyrac croaks, but with no avail. “Come back, dammit!”_

_His friend does not stir. It’s far too late._

_Courfeyrac has little more time to grieve however, because he soon feels a heavy blow to the side of his head and then he’s knocked out cold._

_\---_

“Courfeyrac.”

“Courfeyrac.”

Someone is shaking him. His shoulders are shaking and he doesn’t know what’s going on, so he startles himself awake. His eyes crazed and still stuck in his terrible nightmare, he does the first thing he knows how to do, which is lounge forward at his attacker and return the favor.

He hears the culprit gasp, and by the time he registers that his hands are tight around Jehan’s throat, he realizes he can’t let go.

He can’t let go because he’s scared. His mind registers that this is not someone he wants to hurt, but his brain won’t move his fingers. Not that it would help if he could slip his hands away, because in a surprising turn of events, Jehan’s hands are covering Courfeyrac’s, but instead of trying to pry him away, Jehan’s hands are keeping Courfeyrac there, sternly enforcing the pressure around his throat.

“Jehan,” Courfeyrac exhales, and his eyes are still wild. He’s startled to watch Jehan’s face melt into some sort of twisted euphoria, but less in a “oh god yes fuck me hard” kind of way and more of a “yes I’m going to die today” sort of thing.

Courfeyrac is officially disturbed.  Jehan isn’t getting off on this, Courfeyrac realizes. He wants Courfeyrac to kill him.

Well Courfeyrac won’t have it. He manages to pry his hands away, leaving Jehan to collapse to his knees almost immediately, hands flying to his own throat as he gasps desperately for air to fill back up into his deprived lungs.

And then when Courfeyrac kneels and stretches an arm out to help, Jehan—suddenly terrified—scurries backwards away from his attacker until his back hits the wall.

Courfeyrac insists again, scooting closer but cautiously, trying to prove that he wouldn’t hurt his precious Jehan again, but Jehan refuses his help.

Jehan, in fact, wraps his own hands around back his throat and squeezes as if to finish the job Courfeyrac had started.

Courfeyrac screams at him, flinging himself forwards to grab Jehan’s wrists and tear them away from his neck. Jehan resists against him and they go into a period of momentary struggle, battling desperately for the right to let Jehan live.

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac shouts an apology as he holds Jehan’s fists to his chest. “I freaked out, I didn’t know you were there!”

Jehan tries to punch Courfeyrac over and over, crying out in hysterics “kill me, kill me kill me! Why don’t you have the balls to just kill me? Don’t start something you can’t finish, you bastard!”

His words hurt Courfeyrac more than the fists banging against his chest, but Courfeyrac refuses to let go. He fights his way into snaking his hands behind Jehan’s neck and forcing the two of them into a hug.

Jehan shrieks his discontent, screaming for Courfeyrac to let him go, let him die.

And then he suddenly goes limp in Courfeyrac’s arms.

At first Courfeyrac is frightened he had actually killed Jehan. But then trembling hands are sliding up his back and clenching desperately at the back of his shirt and he realizes Jehan is still here, albeit frightened beyond belief.

“I’m sorry.” The voice is muffled where Jehan’s face hides in Courfeyrac’s chest.

Courfeyrac squeezes around Jehan tighter, as if afraid the boy would slip right through his fingers. “ _I’m_ sorry,” he says back.

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Jehan responds.

“I’m sorry I tried to strangle you.”

“I’m sorry I wanted you to strangle me.”

“I’m sorry you felt like you wanted me to strangle you.”

Jehan almost laughs.

And Courfeyrac just holds him, stroking through long blond locks of hair, and Jehan shakes in his arms like he’s freezing.

Minutes tick by in absolute silence where the only sound is Jehan’s labored breathing, as he tries to inhale and exhale at a regular pace. Between his throat being physically constricted and his near panic attack, Jehan’s actually doing pretty well.

When Courfeyrac determines Jehan is calm enough, he releases his hold on the blond and sets them both up face to face so that he can blink directly into Jehan’s enticing blue eyes. He slowly brings a hand up and when Jehan does not flinch, lifts Jehan’s chin up, and kisses his lips.

Jehan does little to react at first, but when Courfeyrac’s hand slides up his jawline, he brings his own hand up to mimic the action on Courfeyrac’s face. He leans forward into the kiss and exhales sharply, taking in Courfeyrac’s breath as his own.

Just as soon as the kiss started however, it’s over, and Courfeyrac parts their lips to rest their foreheads together, noses almost brushing against each other.

They listen to the sound of each other’s breaths before Courfeyrac speaks. “I love you. And I would never _intentionally_ want to harm you.”

Jehan can’t help but break into a grin. “You love me?”

So Courfeyrac returns the smile and gives Jehan a quick peck on the nose. “Yes. I feel like we’ve been over this conversation before.”

This time it’s Jehan who initiates the kiss, hesitant and slow, like he’s afraid to brush his lips against Courfeyrac’s.

This kiss is even shorter than the last.

And then Jehan says in a hushed whisper, “don’t tell Combeferre about what happened, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

\---

Courfeyrac tells anyways.

He makes it fine all throughout group therapy, but the afternoon brings his individual session, and by that time the guilt breaks down the door and manages to flood Courfeyrac’s entire body until his stomach begins churning within him.

“You need to arrest me,” he groans as he drops his face into his hands.

Dr. Combeferre blinks twice before answering “and why is that?”

Courfeyrac exhales. Then inhales. Exhales again. He takes three more ragged breaths before mustering up enough courage to spit out “I tried to kill Jehan.”

Dr. Combeferre leans forwards in his chair, his eyes alarmed but the rest of his face perfectly poised and tranquil. “What do you mean?”

Courfeyrac shakes his head in disbelief. “I was having a nightmare. A flashback. I got really scared, and I guess I must have been doing something in my sleep I wasn’t supposed to be doing, because Jehan was there trying to wake me up, only I didn’t realize it was him—I thought he was attacking me—so I acted on instinct and…choked him.”

Dr. Combeferre sits back in his seat and crosses one leg over the other. There was a moment of silence before he spoke. “I’m…glad you told me, Courfeyrac.” Jehan seemed fine during group therapy. If Courfeyrac hadn’t spilled, Combeferre would never have guessed. Whatever must have happened, Jehan did not appear to be terribly affected.

“Are you going to arrest me?” Courfeyrac asks cautiously.

Dr. Combeferre shakes his head. “No, I’m not going to arrest you. You were obviously having a spot of a delusional episode. The way Jehan touched you made you feel as if you were being attacked, and so you misinterpreted him as the enemy and acted in the same way you would if you were on the battlefield.”

Courfeyrac nods slowly. And then he parts his lips, licks them once, twice, and finally speaks again. “But…that’s not the worst part. Or actually, maybe that is. Maybe not, I don’t know what takes priority in these situations.”

“What?” Dr. Combeferre asks.

And Courfeyrac sighs, running fingers through his short, curly hair. “Jehan…he…I tried to stop, but he…he wouldn’t let me.”

“ _What_?” Dr. Combeferre repeats.

“He held my hands steady, like he _wanted_ me to choke him to death. I think that scared me more than my nightmare. And even when I stopped, he started shouting at me, like he was angry with me for not killing him. It was terrifying, doc. And he told me not to tell you, but I just…I couldn’t keep it to myself. I feel horrible and guilty and…”

When Courfeyrac gazes at his doctor, he finds Combeferre sitting with a straight back, hands clasped together, and lips pressed into a taut thin line. Completely expressionless.

Then Dr. Combeferre nods once and begins scribbling all over in Courfeyrac’s folder. “Right. Okay. Well. Thank you, Courfeyrac. I understand how much you probably wanted to feel loyal to Jehan and keep it a secret, but this is not something to hide, and I greatly appreciate you telling me. I’m sorry you had to go through all that.” Here he flips through his stack of papers. “I can increase your prescriptions. That should help with the nightmares. I just need you to realize that it’s not your fault, and I’m very proud of you for being able to let go before someone was seriously harmed. Do you still feel safe rooming with Jehan? Do you feel like you might hurt him again? Because if so, I’m afraid we are going to have to separate you.”

Courfeyrac quickly shakes his head. “Never. I’d never hurt him like that again. I swear it.”

That seems good enough for the doctor. He sends Courfeyrac away as he continues jotting down his notes.

\---

“Courfeyrac told me what happened.”

Jehan’s head perks up and he lets out a small, barely audible gasp.

Dr. Combeferre furrows his eyebrows at his patient. “He also told me that you made him promise to keep it a secret. Is this true, Jehan?”

Jehan bows his head and stares at his lap. He can’t really lie to his doctor. “I just…I didn’t want him to get into trouble.”

Dr. Combeferre chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip before shifting in his seat, leaning forward to stare at Jehan directly in the eyes. “Okay, I understand. You wanted to protect him from being reprimanded by me, right?”

Jehan nods.

“That’s awfully kind of you,” Dr. Combeferre remarks. “Look, Jehan, you’re a nice guy. You don’t like making trouble for other people. But this is your life we’re talking about, and if it’s in any way compromised, you have to tell someone so we can solve the problem. Understand?”

Jehan just nods again, defeated. But it seems like he has learned his lesson, so Dr. Combeferre continues on. “I also hear you told Courfeyrac you wanted to die. You were angry that he wasn’t able to kill you?”

Jehan breathes deeply and shrugs his shoulders as if unsure what to say. “I…I don’t know.”

“Is the new medication not working out?”

“It is!” Jehan counters. “It is, I’ve been feeling a lot better the past few weeks, it’s just that…he scared me. He came at me and his fingers were around my throat and suddenly I was in high school again, and Courfeyrac wasn’t Courfeyrac anymore, he was…”

Dr. Combeferre looks concerned. “Why, what happened in high school?”

Jehan shifts uncomfortably in his seat, nervous to even speak. “Uh…sophomore year, this guy showed up in front of my house under the false pretense of asking me out on a date. He didn’t even give me a chance to step out of my doorway before his hands were around my throat and he was choking me. I nearly blacked out. I probably would have died if my mother hadn’t walked downstairs to check on me. I remember being so angry at my mom, like I was mad at her for saving my life. ”

Dr. Combeferre seems upset. “You never told me about this. These...attempted murders. You told me about the bullying, but never anything like this. Why not?”

Jehan scoffs, turning his gaze to his feet. “Loyalty, I guess. He was an outright asshole, but even after he tried to kill me, I couldn’t help but love him.”

“And do you still love him?”

Jehan quickly shakes his head. “Hell no.”

“Right.” Dr. Combeferre makes a few notes on Jehan’s sheet. “Well. Thank you for sharing, I know it must have been a difficult situation for you. I already told Courfeyrac I had no intention of separating you two—unless you feel like your life is still in danger?”

“No,” Jehan replies. “I’m fine, please don’t take him away.”

Dr. Combeferre nods. “All right then, I won’t. But please, if something like this happens again, you have to tell me. I won’t be angry with either of you, I promise, but your safety is my top priority so I have to know when things like this happen, okay?”

“Okay.” Jehan’s voice is hushed.

Dr. Combeferre smiles at him. “I’m proud of you, Jehan. You’ve made so much progress over the years. Let’s keep it up, shall we?”

Jehan only nods once, rather sharply.


	6. Revelations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long. You can sort of imagine how tough fics like this are to write.

The world is ending, burning to the ground, and at this point it seems like nobody is going to survive.

It starts with Enjolras.

As a reward for eating everything on his plate for two weeks straight, Enjolras is permitted to spend the weekend at home. His parents drive up in the most ridiculous rich-boy luxury car Courfeyrac has ever seen in real not-TV life. Sure, Enjolras makes his parents sanitize their hands before he hugs them, but it doesn’t seem to annoy them. In fact, they seem happy just being able to hold their son again. Man, Courfeyrac wishes he had someone to love him like that.

Enjolras comes back a day early, and that’s when all hell breaks loose. He had been caught trying to feed his dinner to his dog, obviously breaking the rules of house visits, so his parents had to send him back. He had failed the test.

He sits on the floor in the middle of the recreation room with his knees drawn into his chest and his face buried in his thighs. He’s been screaming for ten minutes straight, but now he’s just crying.

After what Jehan deems “a suitable amount of time to let it all out” he crouches in front of Enjolras.

“Enjolras,” he says firmly, yet soft-spoken. “My hands are clean. May I touch you?”

Enjolras doesn’t even stop the sobs as he nods, but that’s confirmation enough for Jehan. He places a gentle hand on Enjolras’s shoulder and asks in a tone more inquisitive than accusatory, “Why did you try to throw away your food? You know you need to eat.”

“I couldn’t eat it,” Enjolras wails in response.

“Why not?” Jehan asks. “Were your parents ordering you around? Did you not feel in control of yourself?”

Enjolras quickly shakes his head.

“Then why?”

Enjolras gives a little cough before he answers in a shaky voice, “I tried to organize everything on my plate, but the green beans weren’t all the same size, so I tried to even them out with the knife but I couldn’t get it right, and I got frustrated and I just couldn’t eat it.”

“Oh Enjolras,” Jehan breathes out sympathetically. “You couldn’t ask your mother for help?”

Enjolras shakes his head again. “She was busy. She was working upstairs and I’m not allowed to bother her when she’s working, and dad…” he struggles to regain a normal breathing pattern. “I couldn’t ask him. He does too much already. I’m a burden.”

Jehan rubs Enjolras’s back reassuringly. “No you’re not,” he tries to say.

“Yes I am!” Enjolras’s tone turns surprisingly sharp and he lifts his head up to glare at Jehan. “I am, I am! I’m a burden! I’m a terrible son! Nobody wants me!”

And soon things are getting out of control. Enjolras is fired up, screaming again, even pushing Jehan backwards, although Jehan seems completely unfazed.

Courfeyrac sees though, and he’s not about to let Jehan get hurt, not again, so he’s by Jehan’s side in an instant, yelling back at Enjolras “hey now that wasn’t necessary!”

Jehan grips Courfeyrac’s upper arm in an attempt to calm him. “Courf, it’s fine, he’s fine, just let me handle-,”

“Like hell it’s fine!” Courfeyrac sneers. “He pushed you!”

“I’m okay,” Jehan tries to assure him. “He didn’t mean it.”

“But-,”

“Stop!” Enjolras screams at the both of them, covering his ears with his hands. “Stop it, stop talking, stop it!” He can feel his heart rate increasing rapidly in terror as he realizes he’s no longer in control of the situation.

So Jehan tries to touch Enjolras’s shoulder again to calm him down, but that only makes Enjolras scream louder, his voice shrill enough to finally tell the hospital staff on guard that playtime is over.

Enjolras gets taken away to Dr. Combeferre’s office and Courfeyrac and Jehan are sent to their room to cool off.

Jehan doesn’t blame Courfeyrac. Not really. He understands how Courfeyrac reacts to people he’s fond of being attacked. Courfeyrac has seen one too many of his friends hurt and dead and everything in-between. So Jehan isn’t waiting for an apology.

Which is great because Courfeyrac has none to give. He knows he’s not in the wrong, and okay maybe he could have gone about it a different way, but he’s never really been the one to think before he acts—which is not necessarily a good thing. It’s actually a very, very bad thing.

There’s a bit of an awkward silence. Jehan decides he might as well get ready for bed while he’s waiting for his medicine and thus grabs a pair of cotton pajamas and sneaks into the bathroom. That’s where he always changes, not exactly being comfortable enough to change in front of people, Courfeyrac included. Courfeyrac has no problem stripping out in the open, and Jehan has no problem with Courfeyrac doing so, he _really_ has no problem with it, but he won’t do so himself. Which is fine, to Courfeyrac. It’s all fine. He won’t press the issue.

When Jehan emerges, he’s fully dressed and lazily braiding his hair.

Courfeyrac, sitting on his bed, speaks before Jehan can even make it halfway across the room. “You could be a psychologist yourself.”

Jehan scoffs, taking a seat on his own bed across Courfeyrac’s. He ties off his braid as he responds “a suicidal psychologist. That’d be super fun.”

And Courfeyrac has to admit he smiles a bit.

Moments later, it’s pill time and Jehan downs everything with a grimace.

They spend a good few minutes simply staring at each other, trying to read each other’s expressions, but they’re both completely unreadable.

So Jehan gives up and instead adverts his eyes to stare at his knees.

“I was bullied.”

The phrase confuses Courfeyrac. “Okay…random?”

Jehan pulls his knees into his chest. “You want to know why I’m like this?”

Truth be told, Courfeyrac’s been wondering that since day one. Jehan is a man of ration and strangely paradoxical optimism when he doesn’t feel like ending his own life. His mother loves him, he’s not in debt, and nothing really seems to be going wrong for him right now. There was nothing Courfeyrac could see that could lead to such a beautiful person’s demise. He blamed it all on unfortunate genetics, but while that might have been the case, Courfeyrac was sure it wasn’t the whole truth, but he never pressed it. Jehan has his privacy rights and Courfeyrac wanted to respect that. But now that Jehan is offering the story out of the blue like this, Courfeyrac isn’t going to close his ears, so he nods.

“All my life,” Jehan explains. “Kids in elementary school pulled my hair and called me a girl. I got really bad in junior high, when I’d get shoved in the girls bathroom and they’d force my head down the toilet until I couldn’t breathe. Most of the slanders I could handle, you know, the faggots and the fairies and whatever they felt like calling me that day, but the physical stuff…I’d be walking into school with bruises and marks all over me, and soon some of those marks came by my own accord, and that lead to the first time I tried to kill myself. I tried to keep my visit to the hospital a secret, but people found out and they began berating me for being mentally ill and stuff. And my mom always told me to be myself and wear what I wanted to wear, right? But it was so…so hard, so I cut my hair and joined the tennis club, and that worked for a while. It brought the bullying down, but I was so unhappy inside because all I wanted to do was sit outside and write.”

Courfeyrac shifts uncomfortably in his bed. He knew this wasn’t going to be a happy story, but still nothing could have mentally prepared him for Jehan’s words.

“High school might have been the worst of all,” Jehan almost laughs. “My mom pulled me from school to school, which must have been so difficult on her because she was raising me all on her own, and I even tried private school. That lasted for about a month. And by then I was almost just about used to getting patronized and beaten up, but just when I thought kids couldn’t get any more cruel, they went and proved me wrong. They’d pretend. They’d actually pretend to be my friend, boys would pretend to be interested in me, and then they’d stand me up or humiliate me in front of the whole school. They’d invite me to parties and then force me to kiss girls, to kiss boys. Once, a guy tried to rip my clothes off on the premise of ‘all gays are sluts’ and when I refused, he burned me with a cigarette. And then…” Jehan pauses, like he’s unsure of whether he should be saying this or not, but Courfeyrac is staring intently at him like he wants—no, needs, to know what happened next. So he sighs, shakes his head, and continues.

“And then I took the cigarette right out of his hands and I was going to burn him right back, but I couldn’t do it, so I burned myself instead. He looked horrified and ran away after that, and that’s the day I found out they wouldn’t hurt me if I proved I could hurt myself more than they ever could.”

Courfeyrac leans forward, his arms outstretched and aiming to grab Jehan’s hands, but Jehan simply curls up into himself further, and he’s starting to shiver like he’s going through one of Courfeyrac’s PTSD episodes.

“But it all stopped eventually,” Jehan explains, as if his tale is supposed to have a happy ending. It doesn’t. “I graduated and travelled around the world for a while to take my mind off things, and when that didn’t work, I went to university because I needed stability in my life, and I made friends and joined the GSA, and then I tried to kill myself again and I don’t even know why because I was _happy_. And then I wasn’t anymore and it just got worse in worse and my friends couldn’t do shit, and then I just…dropped out. I don’t even have a degree. I couldn’t do it.” He buries his face in his hands and begins sobbing like there was no tomorrow.

Courfeyrac can’t stand seeing him cry. He’s overwhelmed and almost frightened, but he wants to help Jehan, he wants to tell Jehan that he’s not alone. So he reaches forward again, taking Jehan’s hands and peeling them away from his face. When Jehan doesn’t resist, he takes another step forward and places Jehan’s hands on _his_ face instead. Their eyes lock on one another, Jehan’s bewildered and Courfeyrac’s fiery and intense.

“Listen to me,” Courfeyrac commands, and there’s a certain edge in his voice that could make anybody obey him. “You listen to me, you beautiful, beautiful Jean Prouvaire. That sucks. It sucks that people hurt you like that, and it’s a damn shame they’re the reason you’ve been cooped up in places like these for years and years, and I know you think they ruined your life, but none of that matters now.”

Courfeyrac takes the liberty to kneel onto Jehan’s bed, scooting closer to the boy in front of him until their bodies are just inches apart. Courfeyrac takes Jehan’s hands and moves them between both their bodies. He looks down at Jehan’s arms, covered in thick sweater sleeves and hiding the scars of a terrible, terrible life, and then Jehan’s hands are being pressed against Courfeyrac’s chest. Courfeyrac begins to slowly drag his fingers across Jehan’s knuckles, softly, tenderly, because that’s what Jehan needs right now.

“You’re here,” Courfeyrac whispers, looking down at their joined hands. “You’re here right now, alive, and you’re getting better. And you’re going to get out of his nuthouse and maybe you’re going to go out and finish that degree, or maybe not, either way is fine so long as you’re okay. And you’re going to live a wonderful, wonderful life, but until then I’m right here right now too, alive, and I’ll be right there getting better alongside you. You’re not alone anymore.”

There’s a long pause filled with nothing but the sound of breathing.

Then, it’s Jehan who leaps forward and surprised Courfeyrac with a kiss.

What starts out firm and determined gradually deteriorates into slow and lazy, lips moving across each other without much effort until they cease moving altogether, simply staying, inert, pressed against one another like they’re glued together by the lips.

 Eventually, Jehan smiles. He gives Courfeyrac a quick peck on the lips before speaking against Courfeyrac’s mouth and uttering the phrase “I love you” for the very first time.

The words send Courfeyrac’s stomach tumbling over and over within his body and he can’t help but smile back. “Took the words right out of my mouth,” he mumbles.

Jehan moves to lean his forehead against Courfeyrac’s and exhales contently. He peers down at where their hands are still intertwined. Jehan’s hands are stained with faded pen ink from where he had fallen asleep with his arm strewn across a piece of poetry he’d been writing yesterday and managed to ruin one of his favorite sweaters. Courfeyrac’s hands are rough and calloused from years of war and battle. They’re so different, Jehan thinks to himself, and both equally messed up. But Courfeyrac speaks the truth when he says neither of them are alone anymore. So Jehan grins again, relaxes nearly every muscle in his body, and lets out an assuring “Thank you.”


	7. Progress

Courfeyrac can tell that he’s getting better. Slowly, but surely. The nightmares grow fewer and fewer, the small tremor in his left hand begins to fade, and he’s finally coming to terms with the fact that he may have been at fault for the death of all his friends.

It was a Wednesday when Bossuet accidentally dropped his metal spoon and caused Courfeyrac to scream and hide under the table until Jehan was able to coax him out with that soothing voice of his.

But since then, nothing major has happened, and Dr. Combeferre begins to draw up an outpatient program. That scares Courfeyrac, who needs stability in his life and who doesn’t believe he can find it in the real world. Here, everything is regulated, from meal time to recreation time, but at home he can eat whenever he wants and go wherever he wants, and that freedom frightens him.

“I don’t want to go home,” he admits to Jehan one night as he draws his knees into his chest on the floor beside his bed.

Jehan, kneeling beside him, rubs small circle into Courfeyrac’s upper back. “I understand,” he says reassuringly. “Sometimes I don’t want to go home either.”

This is certainly news to Courfeyrac. He looks up at Jehan and gives him an amused expression.

Jehan shrugs nonchalantly like it’s no big deal. “You know, it’s just like…when places like these are pretty much all you know, it’s scary to imagine a life out there. I don’t know what I’m going to do when I get out of here. I don’t have a home, I don’t have a job, I have nothing.”

Courfeyrac rests his chin on his forearms and sighs. “Same here.”

Jehan leans forward to wrap his arms around Courfeyrac and pull him into a firm hug.

He holds Courfeyrac through a short but volatile panic attack. Courfeyrac drops his head between his legs and begins to hyperventilate, letting out an ear-piercing scream every once in a while, while Jehan stays calm at his side, stroking through dark brown curls and whispering fluffed up words of encouragement that Courfeyrac probably can’t even hear.

But Courfeyrac does not lash out or hit Jehan, so that’s a step forward.

Even as Courfeyrac can feel his breath revert back to normal, he keeps his head between his legs as if he’s afraid to look up and face the world—which he is. It takes a while for him to become comfortable enough in his surroundings again, but Jehan is patient with him. Jehan is patient with everyone. Jehan is perfect.

Jehan is still holding him. Jehan is beautiful.

 

\---

 

The next day, Courfeyrac expresses his fears to his doctor.

Dr. Combeferre understands. “A lot of long-term patients feel this way when faced with the consideration of leaving,” he reassures Courfeyrac.

“Can’t I just stay here? For forever?” As soon as the words leave Courfeyrac’s lips he realizes he sounds like an idiot. Of course he can’t stay here forever, that’s the dumbest idea ever.

It’s dumb enough to make Combeferre laugh. But he doesn’t do it condescendingly, which confuses Courfeyrac. “I’m sorry,” Combeferre flashes him a quick smile. “It’ll be okay. It’s not like we’re going to push you out of the tree and expect you to fly right away. I’ve got a team on board who’s going to help you settle first. You won’t be doing this alone, I promise.”

Courfeyrac stares at the floor. His stomach is still churning. Yeah, sure, he won’t be alone, and that’s all fine and dainty, but what about Jehan? _He’ll_ be all alone. But what could he say? What could he do? Doctor’s orders, after all.

“Thank you,” Courfeyrac mumbles to the ugly beige carpet.

Dr. Combeferre curls his lips into a crooked smile and looks at his patient warmly. “You know, I’m proud of you. You’ve come such a long way, Courfeyrac. You were a trembling mess when you walked in here, and now you’re almost ready to face society again. Isn’t that a good feeling?”

It isn’t. It isn’t because Jehan will still be here, because he’s still a trembling mess and it’s like Courfeyrac can’t do anything to stop it. But he wants to please Dr. Combeferre, so he shrugs halfheartedly and gives a casual nod.

Combeferre seems satisfied.

 

\---

 

When Courfeyrac walks into the rec room, he stumbles upon a rather interesting scenario.

There is Jehan, sitting cross-legged on the floor and holding a jar, surrounded by permanent markers and about ten tubes of glitter, at least two of which have toppled over. There’s glitter on the floor, on the jar _, in the jar_ , on Jehan’s face, in his hair, and across the room Courfeyrac can see Enjolras trying to claw his own eyes out.

“That’s _never_ coming out of the carpet,” Enjolras wheezes, gripping the back of a chair so tight his knuckles are paling like he’ll faint if he lets go.

“That’s what vacuums are for honey,” Grantaire retorts coolly. He snakes a hand up the back of Enjolras’s neck. Enjolras lets out a strangled squeak, shudders, and takes two giant steps away from Grantaire.

Grantaire moves forward to touch him again, but then there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Dude,” Feuilly warns him. “He’s _underage_.”

Grantaire looks at Enjolras, who looks pretty disgusted and downright angry. Then Grantaire shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Hasn’t stopped me before.”

Feuilly looks like he wants to punch him. You don’t talk about underage, dubious consent with Feuilly. To him, ‘that shit ain’t funny.’

Not wanting to get involved in anything concerning the Brady Bunch in the corner of the room, Courfeyrac turns to Bahorel. “What’s he doing?” He asks, jerking his head to acknowledge Jehan sitting in the center of the room.

Bahorel shrugs. “Beats me. He’s been at it all afternoon. Wouldn’t even let Jesus bother him.”

Courfeyrac raises an eyebrow. “Beautifully spoken.”

“No I’m serious,” Bahorel says. “I wrapped myself in a bed sheet and told him Jesus was here because I was sick of him not talking to me and he told me to fuck off.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “I’ll try talking to him.”

Bahorel snorts. “Good luck.”

Turns out Courfeyrac either has very good luck, or he didn’t need any in the first place, because the moment he comes into Jehan’s peripheral vision, the blond perks up and grins at him.

“Are you summoning a swarm of pixies?” Courfeyrac asks as he kneels in front of Jehan.

Jehan just holds out the jar in his hands, all colorful and beyond glittery. It’s filled with faintly purple water and ten thousand pounds of glitter, and Courfeyrac’s hands are already sparkling the moment he takes hold of it.

“It’s a calm jar,” Jehan explains, his eyes wide and shining bright.

“A…calm jar,” Courfeyrac repeats, looking down at the colorful glass before him.

“It’s for you,” Jehan says. “You shake it when you get upset or panicked and then you just sit and watch the glitter float around like a snow globe. I had one the very first time I came here. I threw it at a wall and smashed it and never bothered making another one--,” he hesitates, like he believes he’s just spoiled everything, but Courfeyrac is just looking at him like he’s amused, so Jehan continues. “But I thought it might help you. Think of it as a going away present. That way you’ll…” he pauses again, looking into Courfeyrac’s eyes like he’s unsure of himself. “I mean…I just thought you might have wanted something to remember me by. I don’t…I’m not going to forget about you, Courfeyrac. And I’m kind of hoping you won’t forget me either.”

In a surprising turn of events, Courfeyrac grabs Jehan’s face and kisses him right there in the middle of the rec room. Jehan lets out a small gasp, which Courfeyrac swallows, and they both ignore the surprised noises coming from everyone else around them.

It’s a sweet kiss, decent and short because they’re in the middle of everyone for God’s sake, but when Courfeyrac breaks them apart, he keeps his hands on Jehan’s face.

“I’m never ever going to forget you, Jean Prouvaire,” he promises. “I’m going to wait for you. The moment you get out of this dump, you’re moving in with me, and then we’re both going to live happily ever after forever and ever.”

Jehan grips Courfeyrac’s wrists and grins from ear to ear like he can hardly contain the sunshine pooling in his stomach.

“That sounds nice.”

 

\---

 

That night, they fall into bed together. Jehan’s bed, to be exact. It’s small and meant for one person and one person only, really, because nobody really expects patients to have sex all over the place, but they’ll make it work.

Jehan lays on his back, trapping Courfeyrac’s neck in his arms as they kiss, much more hungry and desperate than the peck they shared in the rec room. Courfeyrac straddles across Jehan’s hips, running his hands up and down the length of Jehan’s sweater sleeves.

It takes some coaxing and reassuring words to let Courfeyrac pull Jehan’s sweater off.

Arms exposed, Jehan hugs himself, but Courfeyrac takes Jehan’s forearms and presses his lips to Jehan’s wrists. There’s a bright new line of poetry written in blue ink across the inside of Jehan’s wrist, but it’s smudged and Courfeyrac can’t make out any words besides “love,” Courfeyrac’s name, and “die.” He isn’t sure how to interpret that.

Courfeyrac slips his fingers under Jehan’s pale pink camisole, and he’s both surprised and not really that surprised at all to feel raised, marked skin beneath his touch. Jehan arches into his touch, as if telling him that it’s okay, that he’s willing to share his most intimate secrets with Courfeyrac and Courfeyrac only.

So the tank top goes flying across the room.

There are scars galore, most of them concentrated around Jehan’s abdomen and sharp hipbones, although there’s a fairly noticeable cut spanning across a rib. But what concerns Courfeyrac isn’t so much as the amount of marks, but rather the most prominent, the most eyecatching—a faded message carved into the length of Jehan’s pelvis that reads “worthless.” Courfeyrac doesn’t want to ask. He doesn’t want to know what drove Jehan to engrave such a derogatory term into his own skin and when. He doesn’t want to know why there are cigarette burns on Jehan’s ribcage that haven’t healed properly, because none of that matters. Jehan is here, right now, and his body is perfect.

There’s a neat column of scars on each of Jehan’s thighs, each cut clean and precise, and with pants shed and gone, Courfeyrac kisses each one, and Jehan lets him.

They move together slowly and deliberately, joined together in the most intimate way. Their sweat pools together, their breaths synchronize, and they are one. Jehan clings to Courfeyrac’s naked back desperately, and neither of them realize that they’re both trembling. They whisper love confessions and each other’s names, their lips locked half the time and their hearts beating rapid throughout. And for the first time in his life, Jehan is not ashamed of his body—not ashamed of the scars and burns that litter his flesh as a reminder of how little control he had over his own life.

Later, when they’re both tired and spent, and Courfeyrac has one lazy arm draped across Jehan’s bare chest as they try to fit together on the tiny single bed, Jehan buries his face into Courfeyrac’s shoulder and clings to him for dear life.

“Nobody’s ever done that to me before,” Jehan admits.

Courfeyrac cocks an eyebrow up. “Really?”

Jehan nods against Courfeyrac’s flesh. “There was a guy in college. We hooked up for a while but I’m not exactly sure it counted as dating. Every time we had sex he told me he didn’t mind the scars, that he’d just ignore them. And he did. And that was fine, I guess. He was a nice guy. But I guess in my heart I didn’t want someone who would just…ignore it.”

“I get it,” Courfeyrac says. “Your scars are part of you. Ignoring them is like ignoring you.”

“Yeah,” Jehan whispers. “Something like that. And then you came along and you…you kissed me, and you kissed my body like you _loved_ my scars.”

“I do,” Courfeyrac assures him. “I love everything about you, no matter what’s on your body. And I’d never ignore you or your beautiful, perfect body. I swear it.”

Jehan grins across Courfeyrac’s skin and gives him a tender kiss to the shoulder.

At that point, Courfeyrac couldn’t take it anymore, and he rolled back on top of Jehan and ravished him with his lips, first his mouth, then his jaw, then lower and lower and lower still. He made a show out of kissing every inch of marred skin, because each scar deserved to be loved, because they were part of Jehan, and Jehan deserved to be loved.


End file.
